I don’t understand why I like this picture so much. Maybe it’s because I took two others within an hour, one in which she looked ten years older, very poised, and another where she appeared ten years younger, child like. Her life could go in any one of four different directions from this moment, and we could look back and say, yeah, you can see it in her face. Vulnerable, yearning, secretive and self-possessed in different measure. To be seventeen is to be elastic.
We’d walked through the secret stairs of Whitley Heights, then we went to Birds for a nostalgic and very disappointing meal, and on the way back to the car I told her to stop in this doorway. She turned around, and for an increment of time wasn’t trying to look pretty. She was Mona Lisa. I suppose this means I like it for what she’s hiding from us.